


stop the world (I wanna get off with you)

by jeynestheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 90s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Getting Together, Groupies, Littlefinger and his creepy advances are mentioned, Recreational Drug Use, Sansa is living as Alayne, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25776013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeynestheon/pseuds/jeynestheon
Summary: Alayne is actually relatively new to being a groupie.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Alayne Stone, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 315





	stop the world (I wanna get off with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [k0skareeves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/gifts).



> Dedicated to Gabi! I love you!

Alayne is actually relatively new to being a groupie. 

She hadn’t known she was until a couple of weeks ago. Even after being invited to all of the parties. Even after spending her afternoons bumming cigarettes off of roadies and her nights passing on enough coke to make her see all seven faces of god—she doesn’t really understand what she is until Myranda is tugging her backstage and she hears a voice call out, _The tall one needs more tits._

And that’s alright.

She’s used to men wanting her, and even trying to take from her. She’s used to being desired. A long time ago, Sansa might have mistaken it for love. But Alayne knows better now. By the time she left her uncle’s house in the middle of the night, and hitchhiked all the way to King’s Landing, she knew better. She buried Sansa somewhere along the road, over a year ago, but Alayne—

Alayne is different.

She’s blonde. She’s _sly._ She smokes cigarettes without coughing and she doesn’t wear bras. She lives in an apartment downtown with a bathroom barely bigger than her coat closet. She parties from sunset till sunrise. She swears. She knows how to talk to boys, knows how to work them just right until they give her what she wants—whether it be backstage passes or a free drink or a dedication in their next set.

Alayne is pretty fucking cool, and her life is just about as good as it’s ever gonna get with all the shit that’s happened to her. 

But then she meets Jon Snow—

And her world starts spinning out of control.

* * *

Maidenvault Garden is humid, crowded, and unbearable.

Alayne adjusts the strap of her top. “Can we go now?” 

“Oh, c’mon!” Myranda bounces up and down beside her. “You don’t mean that.”

“I _do,_ actually. Literally.”

She’s hot. Strands of hair are clinging to the back of her neck. Her leather skirt is sticking to her in a way that chafes her skin. And she’s pissed after fighting with Harry, who was pissed at her for missing his band’s set. 

Harry wanted her to cling to his side and suck his dick and serve as his muse and most importantly, be his. Alayne was able to handle that for awhile until he started writing songs about her and talking about meeting his aunt. He wanted them to be exclusive. Complicated.

Alayne doesn’t _do_ complicated.

“Well, you can’t mean that.” Myranda waves off her statement dismissively. “I am not leaving until she sees me. And she is _going_ to see me.”

The she in question? Mya Stone, bassist for Crow’s Row, the main attraction tonight. She’s annoyingly pretty. Dark hair, pouty lips, dark blue eyes. Her jaw looks like it was carved from marble. Her fingers are long and elegant. She’s extremely talented—no doubt about it. And extremely head over heels for Myranda. They had known each other since they were kids.

“You know she’d marry you if you asked.” Alayne points out. 

“Yeah.” Myranda says smugly, chin lifted. “I know.”

The sound of the guitar surges. The song is finally starting. This is the longest intro she’s ever heard in her life. She doesn’t know much about the band. They’re big fish compared to the bands her and Myranda usually tagged along with. From the moment Alayne looks at them, _really_ looks at them, she can tell. 

They’re different. 

Their music sounds less like a gathering of sounds and more like a harmony. Like they’ve played together half a hundred times and know each other’s every move. The beat is enticing. Magnetic. It rips through her. It’s louder in her ears than the beat of her heart. From the moment she hears it, she knows she’s never gonna forget it.

And then there’s him. 

The lead singer, on the guitar. He moves with it like it’s apart of him, hips rocking in and out and head nodding to the beat. One of the first things she notices about him is that his jeans are deliciously tight—they hug his thighs and his waist. His shirt is unbuttoned a little at the top. His lashes are long and pretty. He’s got a mouth people could write songs about. Truthfully, Alayne is thinking about writing a song about it right now. She couldn’t stop watching him if she tried. 

His voice is raspy and deep and velvet. Something like honey. It blends perfectly to the music, but still manages to stand out. She likes it so much she finds it hard to focus on the lyrics properly. 

_Your past times consisted of the strange / the twisted and deranged / and I love that little game you have called…._

His eyes meet hers, and for a moment, she thinks she’s imagined it. But they don’t move. Not for a long time. Not even to look down at his guitar. He hits every single note perfectly. He’s not using a pick.

The build up to the second chorus begins, and he looks away. She’s left feeling light headed with a feeling she can’t describe. Not quite desire, but—

Purpose. 

* * *

Alayne doesn’t have to ask Myranda his name. At the after party, it’s all anyone is whispering about.

Jon Snow.

She’s only been at the party for half an hour and has heard a dozen rumors being whispered around the house. _I heard he was in juvie until he was 18. I heard he likes his women older. I heard he’s got a magic tongue—if you know what I mean._

It’s quite annoying, actually.

“Can these people find anything else to talk about?” Alayne rolls her eyes. She’s got her song book open. She’s attempting to write something. She wouldn’t be able to relax until she got this feeling out of her head and on paper. 

“I guarantee you, Lay, if Jon Snow rocked your world then you too would have a hard time thinking about anything else.” Myranda teases. 

Mya, whose lap is being used as Myranda’s chair, glares up at her. “What do you know about it?”

“Has anyone ever told you how sexy you are when you’re jealous?”

“That’s still not an _answer._ ”

They begin to bicker, which of course, ends in them making out. That leads to Myranda leading Mya upstairs and Alayne alone on the patio with her song book. The view of the beach is immaculate. She doesn’t know whose house it is. She doesn’t really care. The moon is high in the sky. The sea breeze is ruffling her hair. Tonight feels like the perfect night to write a song. If only she could find the words. 

The lyrics from tonight are still swimming through her head. _Crying Lightning._ It was rock. Pure and utter rock. Sansa had never been drawn to that music, but Alayne finds she rather likes it. It’s brash and angry and senseless. A lot of things she can’t afford to be. She thinks of the girl she used to be as she writes. She doesn’t even pay attention to french doors opening.

_Hello again / friend of a friend…._

“What’s wrong with you?”

A voice startles her out of her head. She’s so deep in her thoughts, in her past, it shows. Sansa’s manners come out. “Pardon?”

She isn’t sure who she’s expecting—but isn’t him.

Yet he’s there. Dressed in all black. The collar of his leather jacket is turned up. His hair is curled from sweat. Alayne feels her mouth comically water. 

“You’re at a party. Surrounded by booze and drugs and—everything.” Jon Snow leans against the wall, tossing his hair out of his face with a smooth nod. “And you’ve got your nose stuck in a book. You could do that at home.”

She blinks.

No one had mentioned he was rude.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” He looks startled by her suggestion. Maybe even offended? He shrugs. “I’m just saying. Y’know. Observing.”

It occurs to her that he’s really, really bad at this. 

She hides her smile in her book, lifting up her pencil to begin writing again. “Okay.”

“What are you writing, anyway?” Jon asks. He’s got a lighter in his hand. The kind that opens and closes. His fingers are thick and his nails are blunt but he manages it with a surprising amount of grace. Not like this conversation. 

Reflexively, Alayne closes the book a little, and narrows her eyes at him. Her tone is dripping with sarcasm. “Your name with a bunch of hearts surrounding it, of course. Jon plus Alayne forever.”

His neck flushes. Oh, she likes that. But still, he doesn’t back down.

“So that’s your name. Alayne.” He continues. He says it like he’s trying out a word in a different language on his tongue. “It’s pretty.”

“A hot shot rockstar thinks my name is pretty.” She fans herself dramatically. “I’m gonna swoon.”

He smiles. _That’s_ pretty, too. A little crooked. It makes her heart skip a beat. 

Jon sits down beside her, in the seat Myranda and Mya once occupied. Immediately, Alayne closes her book.

“Secretive. I’m starting to think you really are scribbling my name in there.”

She feels her cheeks heat, but she rolls her eyes to stave it off. She plays it coy, lashes lowered, voice soft. “In your dreams.”

His eyes are dark. The kind of dark where you can hardly separate the pupil from the iris. In the moonlight, his mouth is a soft smear of rosy, bitten red. His tongue wets his bottom lip. She watches his gaze pass over her, a sweep of heat that makes her toes curl and her breath hitch.

“Probably.” He says quietly. 

Alayne feels herself move more than she actively decides to. She walks up to him, until she’s between his legs. Until her knee is pressing on the little triangle of space on the chair he’s left for her. Her breathing is embarrassingly loud and her voice is irritatingly breathy. “Yeah?”

His hands find her hips. Her shirt is cropped, so his skin is against her skin. His fire against her ice. 

“Definitely.” He admits.

His head tilts up. Her mouth is distressingly close to his. She runs the pad of her thumb along his bottom lip. It’s so, so, soft. But she can’t.

“I don’t kiss.” Alayne blurts.

Jon’s brow furrows. “You don’t?”

“Not on the mouth.”

He considers this, leaning in. His nose is tracing the slope of her throat. He smells like pine and sweat and firewood. She licks her lips. 

“I can work with that.”

Alayne swallows.

* * *

There’s a lumpy, faded red couch in the attic, and that’s where he fucks her. 

With his hand, first. His body is between her legs and her breath is whistling hot against his throat and he’s rolling his wrist so he can get her off just right. Alayne doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet in her life. Frankly, it’s humiliating. But Jon doesn’t seem to mind. Actually, she suspects he’s _enjoying_ it from the way he’s looking at her through those long lashes. Like he looks so singularly _pleased_ to have his fingers inside her—

It’s too much. 

“Please.” She’s gasping helplessly, grinding up against him. She’s begging. _Fuck_ him. She hasn’t begged for anything since she came to King’s Landing but here she is, begging him to make her come. “Right there, oh—”

“Oh.” He agrees, annoyingly self satisfied, as he bites her neck. His fingers are calloused, probably from not using a guitar pick, but honestly it only makes everything better. Much better. She feels like he’s touching her soul with those hands of his.

“Shut up.” Alayne pulls at the hair on the nape of his neck. He sloppily kisses her jaw, then her neck. His hand that is free of her comes to cup her breast. She feels him exhale against her navel. 

“Yeah. I think I will.” Jon says, before his mouth is on her clit and something like a sob rips from her throat.

  
  


* * *

She really isn’t expecting to see him again.

Seriously.

* * *

“Thanks for shopping with us.” Alayne chirps falsely, setting the plastic bag on the counter. “Have a nice day.”

The old man blushes, stammering out a thank you, before leaving the Rite Aid. Her smile flattens into a glum sort of line as she thumps her head against the counter with a groan.

After two days in King’s Landing, it became apparent she couldn’t survive here and make a life for herself without a job. The only problem with that? Alayne had never worked a day in her life. Sansa’s parents were rich, and left her a trust fund when they died. Except her uncle Petyr was now in control of that trust fund. He never forced her to work, and gave her everything she wanted. But he always asked for things in return. Things she couldn’t forget about, no matter how hard she tried.

“This blows.” Her coworker Alayaya declares around a cherry dum dum pop.

“It needs to blow harder.” Alayne says sourly, and puts her face in the fan. “I feel like I’m _dying._ It should be illegal to work in these temperatures.”

“You couldn’t be less of a local if you tried.”

It was never this hot up north. Not for the first time, she missed it. She longs to go home. But she knows there’s nothing to go to. She doesn’t have a single family member left to her, save for her Uncle Brynden, and he didn’t fight for her when Aunt Lysa came to take her after the funeral. Said he wouldn’t be any good at raising a kid. Still. He wrote her letters when he could and Sansa treasured them. But Alayne burned them all along with the box her blonde hair dye came in. 

She’s got room for loathing in her heart whereas the girl she used to be didn’t.

Alayne hears the automatic doors open again. Another customer. She wants to cry. 

“You get this one. I’m gonna use the bathroom.”

It’s all the way in the back of the store, and not much cooler temperature wise. She doesn’t have to use the bathroom, but she goes anyway, and washes her hands. Alayne splashes water on her face, and her neck. Careful not to let any drip on her white tank top. Her blue boxy uniform vest is a sharp, ugly contrast. Her hair is in a lopsided ponytail to beat the heat. No makeup—she hadn’t felt like sweating it off. She takes a deep breath before she enters the world again.

And she finds Jon Snow in the condom aisle.

His eyes are narrowed in a hilarious amount of concentration on a little red box. He looks good. He’s wearing running shorts instead of jeans. Like he’s been working out. His shirt is sleeveless, and his arms are glorious and muscular and tan from the sun. He lifts the hem of his shirt up to wipe at his brow, revealing his abs and that suggestive smattering of coarse dark hair underneath his navel.

And Alayne knows what she wants. 

“Those aren’t very effective.”

Jon looks up. His brows raise a little at the sight of her. He looks at her ugly work vest and her plastic nametag and she nearly feels embarrassed, but then he looks at her legs longer than he looks at anything else so—

She’s not so embarrassed anymore.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Really?”

“You don’t really feel anything. Or so I’ve heard.” Alayne crosses her arms over her chest. That’s where his eyes go next. She likes how easy this is.

Truthfully, she hadn’t heard, but the way his eyes narrow at the mention of another guy inside of her is truly something to behold. 

“Harry told you that?”

Alayne leans against the shelf.

“Sounds like a dick who just wanted you to let him hit raw.” He gestures to the box. “They’ve worked well enough for me all these years.”

“Well. We’re not together anymore.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Obviously.”

He nods shortly, then looks back at the shelf. “Any suggestions?”

Alayne pretends to be flattered. “You’d trust me with that decision?”

“You’re already giving your professional opinion, aren’t you?”

She stifles a smirk, walking past him, to the shelf. She feels his finger catch in one of the belt loops of her shorts, as he follows her. She focuses on the condoms, not his body behind her. Not the memory of his mouth on her neck. 

“This one.” Alayne hands him a purple box with a cherry in the corner. “Good reviews.”

“Yeah?” His mouth is ghosting the shell of her ear.

He turns her to face him, so they’re face to face. Nose to nose. She barely resists the urge to gasp. No. He’d like that too much. He’s pulling down her zipper. The sound is a faint whirring underneath the sound of their mingled breath.

“Cherry…” The brass button of her shorts pops open. Her voice is extremely high in her ears. “It’s my favorite.” 

He nips her neck. Alayne feels like she’s gonna faint. She grips at his shoulders. He’s tacky and gritty with salt slick sweat. Dirty in the best way possible. He’s hard against her hip. 

“Are there any cameras in the supply closet?” It’s not a request. It’s a demand. One she’s eager to obey. She shakes her head.

“Show me.”

* * *

Foreplay—

It’s overrated. 

She’s got her fingernails digging into his shoulders and he’s fucking her relentlessly— _ruthlessly,_ like he hates her guts and she’s whimpering into his ear, breathless. She doesn’t even care that her shirt is pulled down around her breasts and his fingers are digging bruises into hips. Alayne comes so hard she can’t see, with her legs wrapped around her waist.

“I want your number.” Jon informs her, as she rings him up. They left the back room separately, not that it mattered. Her appearance is noticeably rumpled. There’s no hiding the purple hickey on her neck and that her shorts are buttoned up wrong. He isn’t much better. His hair is messy. There’s scratch marks on his shoulders.

Alayaya is watching the exchange, open mouthed. 

“Right. Because you’re gonna call me.” Alayne teases, bagging the condoms and handing them to him. The receipt is printing out slowly.

“That’s what phones are for.”

She doesn’t believe him, not really, but he made her come so nice and she’s not as quick witted as she was pre orgasm so she sighs, before scribbling her number on the back of her receipt. 

He kisses her on the cheek. It’s surprisingly soft and chaste. It leaves her stunned dumb.

“I will, y’know.” He says. “Call you.”

He leaves, as an “Okay,” leaves her lips.

“That was that guy from that band!” Alayaya exclaims, open mouthed. 

“Was it?” Alayne hears herself say. “I didn’t know.”

For the rest of their shift, Alayaya interrogates her and Alayne looks longingly at the supply closet, wishing she could turn back time.

* * *

It’s a few hours past midnight and she has work the next day when her phone rings. Alayne bolts up out of her bed, bleary eyed, and takes it off the hook without thinking much about it. “Hello?”

The answering voice is raspy and crackling and _amused._ “Told you I’d call.”

It takes her sleepy brain a moment to process the words, and then she’s scowling in realization. “At _three_ in the morning?”

“I didn’t say _when_.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Come over.” Jon demands.

Alayne rubs at her eyes. “Now?”

“You know I’ll make it worth your while.” His voice is low and warm in the receiver, and it makes her toes curl, just like he did on the couch and in the closet, and Alayne _sighs_ because she already knows what she’s gonna do. And so does Jon.

”Where are you?”

“You remember the way to the beach house?” 

* * *

Alayne is back at the beach house. There’s a lot of cars in the driveway. She parks a little ways down. She doesn’t even have to knock. The door is unlocked.

It’s a party. 

She knows most of these people. Roadies and regular customers of the strip like herself. She recognizes Lothor and Lem from the Falcons—hopefully Harry isn’t here. There’s music pulsing from the floor. Live music. Alayne follows the sound downstairs into the basement. The staircase is crowded with people, too entranced in the sight before them to return her nod of acknowledgment. 

She doesn’t blame them.

Crow’s Row is live, in all their glory, at the center of the room—sans Mya, who is sound asleep in Myranda’s bed back home. Jon is at the mic, pickless, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face and his voice is rough, scratchy, liquid honey and Alayne can’t stop watching him, not even if she tried. 

_Secrets I have held in my heart / Are harder to hide than I thought / maybe I just wanna be yours..._

The tune is a slow, melancholy one. He’s moving his hips to the tick of the drum. It reminds her of how he fucked her in the supply closet. Controlled but not lacking power or conviction. Alayne feels breathless.

_I wanna be your setting lotion / hold your hair in deep devotion..._

Then he nods in her direction, and she doesn’t know if he’s nodding at her or along to the beat, because he’s turning around to finish his solo, closing the song.

Her clap is delayed compared to everyone else’s. She leans against the wall and watches everyone swarm them, most notably, the girls. Alayne wonders if she’s the only one he called here. She wouldn’t compete for his attention.

She doesn’t have to. Jon makes his way over to her, parting his gaggle of admirers, which quickly close in on one of the guitarists instead. 

He’s still breathing hard from playing. “You came.”

Alayne crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn’t know you were inviting me to a party.”

“What? Oh, this?” Jon looks bemused, as he scans their surroundings. “It’s just rehearsal.”

“A lot of people for rehearsal.”

Jon turns back to his band, and holds up his palm. “I’m gonna take five.” Then he uses that same hand to tug her along. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

Alayne thought it was just an excuse to get her alone, since she’s been here before, but he genuinely begins to show her around. Abstract art hangs on the walls. The sofas look more like sculptures than pieces of furniture. There’s like three different lounge areas and they all have concerningly expensive decor. She cringes as she watches a ming vase shatter upon impact with the wall.

“Is this your place?”

“My dad’s.” He answers, looking very unconcerned as he steps over the mess and leads her to the kitchen.

“Isn’t he gonna be mad that you’re trashing it?” She asked.

Jon just shrugs. “Hopefully.”

Alayne doesn’t understand what he means by this, but then he’s turned away, opening the fridge and observing the contents inside. 

“Do you want something to drink?” He scratches his jaw. “Water, beer, tequila….”

He’s just standing there, leaning against the door, aggravatingly nonchalant, in those godsdamned jeans and the scratches she gave him two days ago are starting to lighten to a fuschia pink and his curls are falling in his eyes—

“I’m not thirsty.” Not for that, anyway.

Jon turns to face her, beer bottle in his hand. Alayne hops onto the island. He steps forward. She spreads her legs so he can get between them, and he does. She watches him drink, watches his throat as he swallows, all the while feeling his eyes on her face.

“You’re all flushed.” He presses the bottle to her cheek. It’s cold and clammy with condensation. “How’s that?”

“Good.” His jeans are rubbing against her inner thigh. It’s delightful. She pulls at his belt. “This is better.”

His eyes are smiling and his mouth is trying its best not to follow suit. He moves the bottle to her neck. Droplets cascade down the slope of her shoulder. Jon licks them up with an attentive tongue. A whimper escapes her mouth.

“Take me to your room.” Alayne whispers in his ear.

* * *

There’s even people in his fucking _bedroom_. 

Four of them. Guys. Alayne can barely see them through the haze of smoke. She feels a breeze, so thankfully, there’s a window open. Still, she coughs. 

“Dude, I thought you were joking about these guitars.” A wiry guy with a buzzcut says. She recognizes him. One of their roadies. 

“Told you.” His hand is still in hers.

The guys are all admiring several electric guitars up against the wall, sleek and expensive looking. Red, black, gunmetal gray, and dark blue. She hasn’t been a groupie long enough to know her guitars, but she knows at the very least that they’re considerably pretty.

The smoke has cleared. She recognizes the other guys, too. The burly one smoking a joint is Grenn, a drummer for a band called Eastwatch. The one with the pretty eyes and the dark hair was the lead singer. His name was Satin—he did body shots off of her once and it was spectacularly average. There’s another guy. Weasely looking. He blushes and avoids her eyes.

Jon gestures to the guy with the buzz cut first, and then the rest. “This is Pyp and Grenn and Satin and Olly. Guys, this is Alayne.”

“Hey.” She says, a little lamely.

“The infamous Alayne.” Grenn smirks. It’s not unkind.

“How ya doin’?” Satin says it like they’ve never met before. Maybe he just doesn’t remember. That’s alright with her.

“We’ve met.” Olly stammers. “I mean. I know who you are. I’ve seen you around. Whatever.”

Pyp barks out a laugh. “That’s not creepy at all.”

“You all can get out, now.” Jon jerks his chin towards the door. “Thanks.”

“We were looking at the guitars, man!” Satin whines, but Jon is pushing him out the door. He takes the joint from Grenn, who objects fiercely.

“Lock the door on your way out.”

The door slams shut, and the lock clicks in place, and finally, they’re alone.

“I think Olly is in love with you.” He tells her. “Just a heads up.”

Alayne kicks off her shoes so she’s just in her knee socks. She sits on the bed. “He seems sweet.”

Jon takes a drag of the joint, and holds, before exhaling through his lips. She’s never seen a boy with a mouth so pretty. 

“Don’t say that to his face. You might break his heart.”

“By calling him sweet?”

“No guy wants to be called sweet.”

Alayne spreads her legs a fraction. He watches. “Maybe I like my boys sweet.”

His eyes narrow at that ever so slightly. Instead of stepping forward, he steps back, until he’s sitting in the armchair across from her. “So he has a chance?”

“Why?” She arches a neat brow. “Jealous?

Jon doesn’t even hesitate. “Very.”

She laughs like she hasn’t in a long time. “Do you always say everything that’s on your mind?”

“Life’s too short to not just get straight to the point of things, don’t you think?”

She watches the smoke leave his mouth again, feeling something ache between her legs. Quietly, she says “Yeah.”

Jon sees the want in her eyes, but mistakes it for something else. He holds out the joint. “Here.”

“I can’t.” Alayne shakes her head, then she amends her statement. “I mean—I totally would. But I have asthma.”

She doesn’t have fucking asthma.

But she also doesn’t want to seem like a total dork in front of him. She had never done drugs before. Cigarettes and alcohol are one thing but mary jane is another. The lie would just have to do.

He laughs, and he sounds impressed. “You honestly continue to surprise me.”

“It’s not a surprise, really. It’s a lung condition.”

Jon stretches his legs out. The joint is still in his right hand, as he pats his knee with his left. “Come over here.”

The way his voice has roughened threatens to make her moan. Her heart skips a beat. “Why?”

“I wanna try something.”

Alayne pads over to him slowly, as to not seem too eager. She straddles one of his thighs, feeling absurdly shy. His hand comes up to cup the side of her face. He runs his thumb over her bottom lip.

“Open.” 

She does as she’s told.

Jon pulls from the joint, and exhales into her mouth ever so slowly. The smoke is tangy and a little metallic but she holds it in and only coughs a little when she lets it go. He doesn’t laugh at her, but rubs her back. He asks her, “How was that?”

It isn’t even the smoke that is giving her the heady feeling coursing through her, but his lips being so close to her own, just a breath from hers. Taking something that was part of him as part of her. 

Alayne demands, “Again.”

They keep going until she’s high as a kite and then he’s showing her his vinyl collection and spinning them on the record player and she’s dancing like crazy to the _This charming man_ by the Smith’s and he’s laughing so hard at her that he can’t breathe. She asks him about his guitar collection and he tells her it’s his dad’s version of child support and she confesses that she’s a natural redhead as he’s running his fingers through her hair and he tells her why he plays pickless.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” She asks him, inspecting his fingertips and the callouses there. His arm is around her neck. Elvis Presley is crooning in the background. 

“I don’t really notice it anymore.” Jon shrugs. 

Alayne kisses each of his fingers, and then his palm. 

_It’s now or never / come hold me tight_

The sun is starting to rise. She doesn’t dare look at the clock. Her eyes are feeling heavy, but she can feel Jon looking at her, and it makes her feel warm all over. 

“I really wanna kiss you.”

“You can kiss me.”

“On the mouth.”

Alayne kisses her fingertip and touches his lip. “There.”

Jon shakes his head, and she giggles uncontrollably. Still, she curls into him, face in his neck. He smells like smoke and aftershave and boy and she really, really likes it. 

He sits up. He settles between her legs, playing with the scruff of her knee socks. His eyes are tender in ways he’s probably not even aware of. His fingers slide up the side of her thighs, and under her skirt. He tells her, “I’m gonna kiss you one day.” 

She takes his hand so that it cups her where she’s warm and wet underneath her panties. She watches his breath stutter. She knows she’s succeeded in distracting him. “You’re gonna be waiting a long time.” 

Too many kisses had been stolen from her, and every time someone’s mouth is on hers, that is what she thinks about. She becomes the girl she’s worked so hard to leave behind—helpless, afraid, and broken. Alayne doesn’t think she ever wants to be kissed again.

Jon starts pulling down her underwear, and she grins at the ceiling. He passes a thumb over her clit, and her hips buck against him. Alayne feels the heat of his mouth, feels it getting ready to close over her and push her to the edge, as he says, “I’ve got nothing but time, doll.”

* * *

The last of spring bleeds into summer. 

Alayne has been to more Crow’s Row shows than she can count. 

Mostly at festivals. Festivals are popular in the Crownlands during the summer. She has a stack of rubbery wristbands and laminated lanyards in her underwear drawer. BACKSTAGE ACCESS. VIP SUITE. WITH THE BAND. 

Jon gave her all of them. 

Sometimes she watched him play from backstage, in the wings, with Myranda and the band’s manager Davos by her side. Other times, she was in the mosh, dancing with the rest of the crowd. She likes those times the best, because his eyes find her in the crowd and it always felt like he was singing to her. And afterwards, they’d go out: to someone’s house, to a club, anywhere, and they’d stay out until the sun began to rise. Alayne would fall asleep with him, and then wake up with him, and do it all over again.

“Your water pressure is shit,” Jon tells her one morning, towel wrapped around his waist. 

Alayne spits her toothpaste into the sink. “Randa called the guy, like, 20 times, to come fix it.”

“You called the guy?” She hears Mya exclaim in the kitchen. “I told you I'd fix it!”

“Snitch!” Myranda shouts, and Alayne grimaces guiltily as they continue to bicker.

“I have a perfectly good shower at the beach house, you know.” Jon wraps his arms around her waist. “An empty beach house.”

“Your dad’s beach house.” Alayne reminds him.

Jon shrugs, as if that’s a nonissue. “I can make you a key if you want.”

“What?”

“A key. You turn it in the knob and it unlocks things.”

A key.

A key feels like a step towards something else. A key feels permanent. A key feels like a lot, considering she can’t even bring herself to kiss him. She feels like she’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to just move on. She could handle it.

But can she handle this?

Alayne rinses her mouth out with water. “If you want.”

“What I want,” His hands are up her shirt and his mouth is on the slope of her neck and his voice is still deliciously scratchy from sleep. “is to do this all night long, and take a nice long shower in the morning.”

“You’re really high maintenance for a rockstar.”

“You are aware you have _three_ different curling irons?”

She chooses not to respond to that. 

Jon makes his way back to her bedroom. After rinsing her toothbrush, Alayne follows him. Mya and Myranda are still bickering in the kitchen, so Sansa closes the door behind her.

Jon is wearing pants, laying on her bed, flipping through her song book. 

“Don’t touch that.” She moves to snatch it from him, but he leans out of the way.

“This is the book.” Jon says. “The one from the night we met.”

“Give it back.” Her voice is shrill. Alarm is pulsing through her.

His brow creases. “Are these songs?”

“ _Stop_!”

“You hear my songs all the time.”

“Because you _let_ me. Give it back!”

Alayne lunges, but he’s fast. He’s off the bed within seconds, shutting himself inside the closet. She bangs on the door until her fists hurt, screaming threats until her voice is hoarse. Eventually, Jon opens the door.

He holds up the book. “You really wrote these?”

She snatches it back, but he doesn’t look fazed. He’s just looking at her as if he’s never seen her before. His lips are parted in a sort of wonder. “They’re incredible.”

Alayne bursts into tears.

“Why are you crying?” Jon says, seemingly horrified and terrified at the same time as he brings her close to him. But she hits his chest. Hard.

“Because you’re an ass!” She wails, face in his neck. 

He says nothing, so she takes that as an agreement. He rubs her back awkwardly, and kisses her temple. Alayne feels herself start to calm down despite herself. 

She sniffles. “I know you’re just saying they’re good to make me feel better.”

Jon pulls back so that he can look at her. His dark eyes are serious and warm. “No, I’m not. You know I’m not. I’ve never lied to you.” 

Guilt twists in her stomach, and she tries to look away from him, but he catches her by the chin. 

“I’m serious, doll. I’m proud of you.”

Her cheeks heat up as butterflies swirl in her stomach. She nods, because she can’t think of anything else to say. The warmth spreading through her body is making it hard to focus. She’s suddenly struck with just how much his opinion matters to her. 

“Will you sing for me one day?” He asks her. 

The thought scares her more than anything. But the look he’s giving her right now—she can’t say no to him. So she doesn’t. She wraps her arms around his neck. “Maybe.”

“Maybe.” Jon repeats the word. “I can work with that.”

Alayne leans in before she can second guess herself, pressing her mouth against his. The kiss is quick and fleeting but it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. Then she pulls back.

The look he gives her is a different one. Like she’s everything. Like he’s promising her everything. And she believes him. She shouldn’t, not after all that’s happened to her, but she does.

And he smiles at her. “Told you I was gonna kiss you one day.”

“Shut up.” She tells him, and when she kisses him again, she makes it last, because she has a feeling they’re gonna last.


End file.
